just give me a real smile
by Mysteriouslyfatcat
Summary: Modern AU. Feysand / Like clockwork, he would take a seat in his normal booth in the far corner of the lounge and turn his gaze towards the woman he came here for every week. Feyre is the hostess of a lounge, and Rhys is pining. T 'cause of swear words.


**Hola muchachos ;). I found this while going through my folders, and I saw that I had made a whole plot accompanying it. I figured why the hell not just post it and see what happens? This was from my more active writing days (which still doesn't say much), and I would just like to say that I am a tad bit rusty now, unfortunately. This is what happens when you get lazy. R &R people. Tell me what you think – and please help if there's any grammar or plot holes or if you want to CONSTRUCTIVELY criticize le work. Or if you just want to say hi, that's cool too. I really do appreciate it – I'm going to school in a different language so my English is totally mixed these days. It sucks but it's also kinda funny. **

**I have no idea where I'm going with this, but** _ **tadaa ~~~~**_

In retrospect, he'd first gone to the lounge to annoy the owner and to appease Amren, an avid listener of both jazz and lounge music. Personally, he was more of a fan of the alternative rock genre, though he didn't mind the soothing tones. Yet he came here every Friday, sometimes alone, sometimes with his friends, without fault. Like clockwork, he would take a seat in his normal booth in the far corner of the lounge and turn his gaze towards the woman he came here for every week. He didn't miss the hated glances he would receive every Friday from those surrounding him, nor the lewd welcome and what he supposed could be deemed as a seductive wink twice a month from the lounge singer, Ianthe, whenever she paraded her way through the crowd after her songs to take compliments from the adoring fans. Ianthe always rounded off to _her_ at the end of her sashay through the mass, dropping veiled insults of her casualness and recurring style of black ripped skinny jeans, dark purple sneakers, black t-shirts, and open black blazers. Ianthe's "Feyre you would look gorgeous in a dress' was chaffing, something he could see Feyre tolerated and overlooked every time she replied with that tight-lipped smile she used, designed especially for the beach-blonde singer. Tamlin, the owner of the lounge, had also reprimanded her for her nonchalant style as she went around offering refreshments and introducing the night's acts. He almost always wore suits.

She moved like liquid starlight. She weaved between tables and chairs, offering one of her pinup smiles to any of the suckers that called her over to their table. She almost always braided her hair, containing that dark honey color into one plait that fell to just below her shoulder blades.

He didn't miss the way her steely eyes surveyed the room, the way her mouth would sometimes twitch upwards whenever he, or one of his companions, uttered a particularly witty remark, the way her faint freckles dotted the thin line that curved over her nose and stretched from cheek to cheek. He didn't miss the way her face brightened whenever she saw the owner of the club strut through the tables towards his office near the back of the club. He didn't miss the little smile the owner gave her, or the suggestive wink Tamlin sent her way. He was, however, sure that _she_ missed the way Rhys continued to gaze at her instead of the run-of-the-mill lounge singer dressed in flashy whites and blues, and the way he tried saying her name as often as possible even though she had never asked for his, and the way he'd give her the rarest form of his smiles whenever she came over to ask if he needed anything. _You,_ he wanted to say, _I need you_. But he never did.

Cassian laughed at his expense every time she moved to another table, Mor gave him that pitying look, Amren would blatantly remark that he should just ask her for her number and get it over with, and Azriel, with the unfortunate habit of being the bearer of bad news, would say that she was obviously _already taken_. Rhys would agree with Azriel; she _was_ taken. It was impossible to deny, the private glances she cast towards the tall, tan man with longer and blonder hair than her speaking for themselves.

They didn't match. Perhaps it was simply him being jealous, but they didn't. It wasn't the suit to jeans ratio. He was impeccably dressed himself, usually in dark clothing with purple or night-blue ties; there was no judgment clothing-wise. If he was being particularly interrogative with his brandy, one hand stretched around the back of the dark booth and the other hand swirling the liquid as he considered her and Tamlin as a couple, it was because of the way the two were. Feyre looked strong. Too strong, in fact, for someone such as Tamlin. Tamlin was too gentle with her, treating her like some porcelain doll as he growled at Rhysand for adding a suggestive wink or smirk at the end of his order. As if Feyre wouldn't have had the guts to tell him to back off. She never did, but he felt as though that was due the gratitude she felt towards him after a run in with a few particularly nasty and _handsy_ customers where Tamlin hadn't been present.

This much he had gathered over the past few months, every Friday. Was he pining? He didn't think so, and it didn't feel as pathetic as it should've, not when he didn't let it spill over into his diurnal rhythms. He never let it affect his daily job, though he thought of her often. Her smile. Her eyes. The way she sometimes nodded to him and his group in greeting. The way that slight shake of her head would send his heart racing because _what if she came over to him-_

Fuck. He _was_ pining.

"Alright everyone, I want to introduce tonight's special performance, Ianthe!" Her voice was a soothing melody, the only diamond in the coming rubble. A crystal-clear tune, one that rasped a bit at times, but was something that could lull him to sleep, if he ever dared to shut his eyes with Feyre around. He would center on her, on Feyre, and let her voice wash over him, blocking out the lounge singer's melodiously annoying voice.

It wasn't that Ianthe was a poor singer, no. Unfortunately, she sang quite well, and she knew it. It was just that _every time_ Ianthe strutted off stage, she would sway her hips in the most unappealing – at least to Rhys, it worked quite well on the others – manner and saunter up to him. She would open that mouth of hers and out would come more sweet-talking, more of that sugary honey that he so hated to hear repeatedly. It was as if she thought he came here only to see her. He supposed it looked that way, what with him being in the club every Friday, but truly, it was just to see his epicenter of calm before walking out into the chaos of the world.

Every time after she introduced a new show, be it a jazz band or a lounge singer, she always jumped off the stage and went to greet everyone. There were a few that she reached with a half-smile, a tug on the corners of her lips, others simply received the plastered-on version. He received something in between. A smirk perhaps, a slight twitch on her lips as she asked how he was doing or if he needed something else to drink. Mor had dragged her into a conversation once, a feat he hadn't quite managed yet, and from what he had heard, Feyre was welcoming to those who were deserving of her respect. The fact that he was somewhere in between meant that she hadn't quite gotten a read on him yet. And in truth, he could understand her. What was he but another regular with a taste for Hennessy and a secured spot in the lounge every Friday?

But that didn't stop Rhys from wishing, just once, that she would grace him with a real smile.


End file.
